


How the Grinch Aced Christmas

by labelladonna99



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluffy Angst, Heroes (TV) - Freeform, M/M, Post-Brave New World, Post-Canon, petlar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 04:30:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17277101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelladonna99/pseuds/labelladonna99
Summary: Just what the title says, here's a little sugar for your post-holiday blues. Happy 2019!





	How the Grinch Aced Christmas

Sylar trudged up the last flight of stairs to the apartment holding his end of the Christmas tree that he and Peter had transported from the midtown tree market. Peter was several steps below, bearing more of the weight because he was the stronger of the two men, a fact Sylar only grudgingly acknowledged.

“I don’t see why you had to make this so hard,” Sylar grumbled.

“We’re still people, Sylar. Just because we have abilities doesn’t mean we need to use them for everything. Half the fun of getting a tree is the effort involved,” Peter insisted.

Sylar didn’t respond. Peter had strange ideas about fun.

They hauled the tree inside the apartment, placed it upright in its stand and snipped the netting away to let the tightly bound branches relax before adding lights and ornaments.

“You still haven’t told me what you want for Christmas.” Peter glanced up from tearing the plastic wrapping off of one of the spools of lights they had purchased earlier. All together, they had about 1,000 lights, which Sylar thought was overkill but Peter was like a newly-minted grown-up with his first full-sized Christmas tree, It was probably accurate now that Sylar thought about it. What sort of tree could Peter have had living in college and nursing school dorms and sharing off-campus dives with roommates? Then his abilities had emerged and that had put the kibosh on celebrating anything except perhaps staying alive. That made this decorating ritual more special than Sylar had realized. Still, he wasn’t going to make things too easy for Peter.

“I thought you were all about the fun of the effort involved,” Sylar snarked. “Besides what’s the point of buying each other stuff when I can turn anything to solid gold? There’s nothing you can buy me that I can’t get for myself.”

“That’s not the point. I thought you liked Christmas. You sound like the Grinch.”

“Peter,” Sylar said, rising to his full height above the box of mismatched and broken ornaments he had been sorting through. “Do you even know what The Grinch is about? It wasn’t Christmas he objected to. It was the commercialism, the glorification of stuff.”

Peter stared at him for a moment, at a complete loss for words. And then he shook his head and laughed. “Only you could see things from the Grinch’s point of view.”

Knowing Peter, that had been meant as a compliment, that Sylar provided the rare perspective that everyone else overlooked. That was how he chose to take the comment, although Peter had his sarcastic side, too.

It was December 5. Twenty more days til Christmas. Sylar knew exactly what he was giving Peter and he hadn’t needed hints or catalogues in the mail to figure it out. Peter was going to have to work this one out on his own because Sylar wasn’t going to tell him what he wanted.

***

  
Claire had been seeing someone for about six months, a guy named Alex whose ability was breathing underwater. Peter had never gotten the full story, only that they had met before and Claire had helped him when the Company was chasing him. He and Claire hadn’t talked about how she reconnected with her old friend. Peter liked Alex, even though he thought the guy could stand to loosen up a bit. He was so solemn and serious. He was also crazy about Claire and that’s what mattered.

“Have you picked out a Christmas gift for Alex yet?” Peter asked his niece over a take-out lunch one afternoon in the break-room at the institute. Thanks to Sylar’s unflagging dedication to finding a location and recruiting Rebel, and Rebel’s help in finding other specials to join them, the institute (Peter refused to use capital letters to name it, wanting to avoid any similarity to The Company) had been up and running for nearly eight months. They'd been able to offer asylum and ability training to six newly emergent specials, two of whom had stayed on to become part of the organization. The others had been given new identities to shield them from the government.

“Uh, no. Why?” Claire replied, with a look that was halfway between a smile and a puzzled frown. Peter returned it with a sheepish grin. Maybe it was weird of him to ask, not the kind of thing they usually talked about.

“I have no idea what to get for Sylar and he won’t give me any hints,” Peter said. “What do you get for a guy who has everything, or could if he wanted?”

“No offense, Peter, but you’re a little clueless sometimes. Do you really think I’m the person to be asking?” After a momentary direct and maybe somewhat scornful gaze, Claire bit into her sandwich and Peter interpreted that as the subject being closed.

It was December 10. Only fifteen days until Christmas and Peter was no closer to finding the perfect gift for Sylar.

There was only one other woman who knew Peter and Sylar well enough that he could ask. This wasn’t something he could discuss with any of his guy friends. He could just hear the crap he’d take at the hospital if he brought the subject up with his fellow EMTs. Even Hesam, who wasn’t a Neanderthal and in whom Peter had finally confided about abilities, wouldn’t be much help on the gift-giving front. He always bought jewelry for his girlfriends and well, that wouldn’t work for Sylar for a number of reasons.

Emma left Peter with more questions than answers when he caught up with her at the end of his shift and asked if she was free to grab coffee. They went to the coffee shop near the hospital because neither of them liked Starbucks and it was impossible to get a table there anyway.

“You have to think about his love language,” she suggested, then turned her attention to the middle-aged, uniformed waitress who had arrived to take their order.

“His what?” Peter looked at Emma blankly.

The waitress had departed with their order for coffee and toasted bagels and Emma’s focus returned to Peter’s dilemma.

“You don’t know the five languages of love?” “There’s a book about it. Everybody has different ways they express love and if you can figure out what language someone speaks, then you try to give them what they need to feel cared for.” Emma pulled her phone out of her pocket and began tapping on the screen. “Here,” she said, passing the phone across the worn formica table to Peter. “Your love language is obviously touch. What do you think Sylar’s is?”

Peter scanned the article Emma had googled, focusing on the five numbered bullet points that were each followed by explanatory text.

  * _Words of affirmation_
  * _Acts of service_
  * _Gifts_
  * _Quality time_
  * _Physical touch_



“There’s only one choice?” he asked Emma, lifting his head to face her when he spoke so she could read his lips. “I mean, Sylar said he didn’t want anything I can buy but that doesn’t mean he doesn't like gifts. I’ve given him stuff before. I think he liked it.” Peter recalled Sylar’s reaction to the workbench, tools and clock that were his first gifts to the former watchmaker back when they were trapped and had become friendly enough to celebrate Christmas together. Sylar had been genuinely touched by those gifts. Then there was the time just before they broke out when Peter had found a copy of Pillars of the Earth to replace Sylar’s tattered edition. That was real gratitude Sylar had displayed then. For Sylar’s birthday, Peter had taken him to see an opera — not Peter’s thing but Sylar had broader or perhaps more old-fashioned musical tastes and had enjoyed it.

This love languages business was baffling and Peter suspected that the book was written for women, who were naturally better at this sort of thing in the first place. He may have been an empath but he was also a guy. As far as he could tell, Sylar appreciated all of the things on the list. He even blushed sometimes when Peter gave him compliments, he definitely craved touch, and he was always complaining when Peter worked double-shifts that inhibited their time together.

“Well not everybody falls into neat little boxes, Peter, but don’t think about what you give to Sylar. What does he do for you? That’s his love language.”

Peter got it now, envisioning cups of coffee floating towards him when he stumbled out of bed in the morning, the sandwiches and waffles that had fortified him in the mind-prison, the furniture that appeared as if by magic in his once barren apartment, Sylar taking the lead on scouting their first location for the institute because Peter had a full-time job. Acts of Service were Sylar’s way of showing he cared. What service could Peter possibly perform that would be meaningful when Sylar was a walking toolbox of superpowers? Telekinesis in particular rendered superfluous most tasks that Peter could do for Sylar.

Peter thanked Emma for the advice and paid for their order. It was December 15. He had 10 days to wrack his brain for a gift and he didn’t think the love languages were going to be helpful. He wondered what Sylar was getting him? Sylar hadn’t asked but Peter had dropped hints for some practical things he could use —- headphones, warm socks, a travel mug because Peter was always losing them.

***

Peter was on the dayshift for the next few weeks and that left him free to spend evenings at home with Sylar. Sylar planned carefully for their first evening together in ages, including homemade hot cocoa because inside of Peter beat the heart of a ten-year old boy with a massive sweet tooth.

They were going to watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas. Peter would enjoy it no matter how many times he’d seen it before. He liked all the corny crap that went with the season and Sylar got vicarious pleasure from Peter’s enjoyment. It was innocent, heart-warming and offered the kind of hope for a better world that Peter had always strived for and that had eluded both of them for so long. Sylar had a point to make, too, one that wouldn’t be worthwhile if he were too obvious about it. What he wanted couldn’t be written on a Dear Santa list.

“You do see what I meant about the Grinch?” Sylar asked as the credits rolled. Peter was slumped on the couch under a blanket. How he wasn’t buzzing from the caffeine in all the cocoa he’d consumed was a mystery. It was only nine pm and he was already sleepy if his droopy eyelids were any indication.

“It wasn’t Christmas that made his heart grow three sizes and it sure as hell wasn't because the Whos were happy that he returned all their stuff.”

“No? Then what was it?” Peter asked.

“He found a connection,” Sylar said. It was as simple as that and unfathomable to him that everybody seemed to miss the point of the story and thought it was about the True Meaning of Christmas™️. Sylar didn’t care much about the religious significance of the holiday. The baby Jesus myth was a touching, emotionally satisfying story and he could appreciate its allure. It was a healing balm for a sick world. But that’s not the message he got from the Grinch’s tale. It was about the importance of human connection, even for people who acted like they didn’t want or need it.

While Sylar didn’t believe in the Christmas story nor any of the other religious teaching he’d learned at his mother’s knee, he was careful not to disparage it too much around Peter. Peter didn’t spend a great deal of time in church and he didn’t drape himself in his religion but it was important to him and unlike most of the hypocrites Sylar had known, Peter tried to live by his creed. At the same time, Peter respected Sylar’s atheism and never tried to convert him. Sylar had once asked him why, since Christianity was all about spreading the gospels aka “good news.”

Peter had shrugged and said that he didn’t think God cared what people believed and neither did he. “Faith is personal. It’s for us, not for God. I don’t think people need to believe in God to do his work. That’s what matters to me. Why haven’t you tried to convince me it’s all a fairytale?”

If anything could have converted Sylar, it was that quiet and humble conviction. “I guess for the same reason,” Sylar had answered.

Peter went right to bed after the show ended and Sylar followed shortly after, although he wasn’t tired and would probably just lie awake and watch Peter sleep. He wasn’t sure if Peter had gotten the message he was trying to convey but there was always tomorrow. He laid an arm across Peter’s waist and shifted closer to bury his face in his sleeping lover’s hair. A new moon had risen and its soft light glowing through the window was silvery on Peter’s face. He looked like an angel, if angels could be that sexy.

Sylar inhaled the shampoo scent of Peter’s hair, nuzzled his neck and planted a kiss near his ear. “Mmm.” Peter mumbled. Sylar did it again and seconds later Peter was rolling over to face him. Without a word and with his eyes still shut, Peter found Sylar’s hand and lifted it, bringing it to the side of his head and letting it lay atop his hair. Sylar understood and began to sift his fingers through the strands, gently massaging Peter’s scalp. “Mmm.” Peter said again, opening his eyes and scooting nearer. His hand was exploring underneath Sylar’s t-shirt. “You wanna?”

“I always do,” Sylar replied. He took his time stroking Peter’s neck, down his shoulder and across his waist, fondling Peter’s abdomen and sliding around the other side to squeeze his buttock. Up, down and around he went, touching almost everywhere, sensing Peter’s arousal in his accelerated breathing and attempts to create some friction. But Sylar held him off, pushing Peter’s searching hand away, wanting to torture him until Peter was a trembling mess of pent-up lust and Sylar himself was nearly gone from the anticipation alone. “I can’t take it anymore,” Peter croaked. “You're driving me crazy.”

“That’s the goal.” Sylar chuckled, captured Peter’s mouth with his own and pulled him closer. “You want me?” he asked, letting his voice dip way down to a low, desirous rumble.

“Yes! Now. Please.” They were both still fully clothed in t-shirts and pajama bottoms and Peter was trying to yank Sylar’s pants down.

“You’re so hot when you beg.” Sylar laughed and finally pounced, still taking his time. They made love slowly until neither of them could hold back any longer. Sylar came first, shuddering and collapsing against Peter who soon was lost in the throes of his own orgasm. They were both too wiped out to move and lay drowsily wrapped up in one another.

“I love you, Peter,” Sylar said in a sleepy whisper. He didn’t say it often, but at least he said it, letting the words slip out in moments like this when his guard was down, his body relaxed and his mind overcome with the happy endorphins of sexual and emotional release.

In response, Peter tightened his arm around Sylar’s waist. “I know you do,” he murmured back in an equally sleepy voice.

It was December 17. Eight days til Christmas. Would Sylar ever be granted his most coveted wish?

***

Peter woke up in a fantastic mood. Sylar usually greeted him with coffee but it was early and he was still in bed when Peter emerged from the shower and dressed for work.

Sylar cracked one eye open. “Leaving so soon?”

Peter walked over to Sylar’s side of the bed and bent to kiss him. “Last night was amazing. I’m going to be thinking about it all day.”

“Hmmmf,” came a grumpy reply that made Peter’s eyebrows rise in surprise and a touch of indignation.

“What does that mean?”

“It means it’s too early in the morning to be awake,” Sylar said with a huff, grabbing the blanket and pulling it around himself as he rolled to his side, facing away from Peter.

Peter blinked and shook his head at Sylar’s mercurial mood. “I’ll see you later. Have a good day.”

There was no response. Peter was going to take an ability because his current power was flight. Unless he ditched his partner with the ambulance and flew ahead to the site of a call, which Hesam hated and didn’t make for a good working partnership, flight was the least useful ability for his job. He preferred lie detection but with Sylar practically growling at him, it wasn’t a good time to ask. Oh well, he’d get to work faster than usual today.

Instead of thinking about sex all day, which was probably a good thing for Peter’s concentration not to mention avoiding embarrassing side effects, he fretted that he still didn’t know what to get Sylar for Christmas. He decided he’d pick up a few items after work, just so there would be something under the tree for Sylar to open. It was Hesam after all who gave Peter his first clue to a gift that would matter.

They were between calls and had stopped for lunch when Hesam inquired how Peter’s Christmas shopping was going. Peter confided his dilemma with Sylar’s emphatic declaration about not needing stuff.

“Uh oh,” Hesam said with a sidelong glance at Peter between forkfuls of beef with broccoli.

“What? Why ‘uh oh’?” Peter waited for Hesam to finish chewing to explain. His own lunch sat between his knees, forgotten for the moment.

“It means you’re having problems.” Hesam nodded several times, with a sage expression as if he’d taken lessons from Dr. Phil or some other relationship guru.

“But we’re not,” Peter protested. “We get along fine. Sometimes we argue but it’s normal stuff. And Sylar doesn’t hold back telling me when he’s mad.” Their most frequent area of disagreement was about abilities. Sylar would prod Peter to take regeneration or Peter would get irritated when Sylar preempted his tasks, using telekinesis to do it for him. Or else Sylar would chafe at Peter helping himself to abilities without asking. It wasn’t normal per se but it was normal for them.

“Peter, I’m telling you, when someone says they don’t want stuff, it means they want something that they’re not getting.” Hesam said patiently. “You holding out on him or what?”

Peter recalled what he’d said to Sylar on his way out that morning. He hadn’t been thinking of sex earlier, but now he was and he felt his face getting warm and probably turning red.

Hesam laughed. “Sorry, dude, didn’t mean to get personal. Look, everyone wants presents unless there’s something else they want more, like a romantic gesture, y’know?”

“Uh, no. Not really. Sylar’s not exactly the romantic type. What kind of gesture do you mean?”

“You want to do something to show them where they stand. So like their own key to your place or space in the closet for their stuff. You guys live together so I don’t know. But trust me it’s something like that.”

“Huh,” Peter said, thinking that for the first time he might be on the right track. “That’s good advice. Thanks, man. How do you know all this anyway?”

Hesam shrugged. “I date a lot.”

***

  
With Peter working days, they were able to eat dinner together and Sylar was in the kitchen cooking when Peter came in sniffing around and being overly grateful and solicitous. “It’s just stir fry, not exactly gourmet food. But you’re welcome,” Sylar said.

Over dinner they talked about their day, as usual, when Peter abruptly asked if there was anything Sylar wanted to know about him.

With one eyebrow twitching in amusement, Sylar responded with a question of his own, “You mean in addition to everything you told me during five years of having nobody else to talk to? Not to mention all of the memories going back to the day you were born and from living with you for the past year or so?” Sylar held up a hand and began to tick off a list of things he knew about Peter. “Your favorite color is green, you prefer The Beatles to The Stones, you're the only person I’ve ever known who could eat spaghetti for dinner every day, you sing in the shower when you think you can’t be heard, you hate clowns and you’re terrified of cicadas. What else is there?”

“That’s not what I meant. I was just wondering if we’re okay. You know, us?” Peter said, gesturing between the two of them.

Sylar was baffled by this conversation. “I’m fine. You? Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

“No. No, I’m good. Really good.” Peter nodded emphatically, giving Sylar one of those little sideways grins that didn’t show any teeth but that Sylar had come to know was one of Peter’s happiest expressions. Still, there was something going on and Peter confirmed it seconds later when the smile faded and was replaced by a frown. He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “So you’re not mad at me? You were kind of grouchy this morning.”

“Was I?” Sylar put on his most innocent facade.

“Never mind, it’s no big deal. You wanna watch Jeopardy?”

Huh? What was that all about? Peter could be so random at times. After trouncing Peter at Jeopardy, Sylar dove into the latest mystery he’d been reading while Peter cleaned up from dinner. Later, just as Sylar was dozing off beside Peter in bed, Peter’s voice in the dark pulled him from the brink of sleep. “You know that power you told me about? From that woman, Lydia? Have you ever thought about, y’know….?”

Sylar was wide awake now. What the hell was Peter getting at? He turned his head on the pillow to peer at Peter, but it was too dark to see him. “Have I thought about using it on you? Yes. Are you offering and if so, why?”

The silence before Peter’s response was a few seconds too long for Sylar’s liking and then it was just some non-committal bullshit. “I just wondered if that was something you thought about,” Peter said.

Okay, something was up. Sylar sat up and waved a hand in the direction of the bedside lamp. Peter threw a hand up to shield his face and Sylar didn’t think it was really the light he was trying to block.

“Spill it.” Sylar stared down at his bedmate, trying to read his body language for clues. “Whatever it is, quit beating around the bush. If I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you were guilty of something you can’t bring yourself to talk about.”

“No!” Peter scrambled to an upright position and reached for Sylar’s shoulder with the patented Peter Petrelli magic soothing touch that induced hero worship in cheerleaders, sent big brothers flying to the stratosphere and convinced ex-serial killers to follow him anywhere. “It’s not like that, Sylar. It’s nothing like that. I just wanna know if you’re happy.”

“That makes no sense,” Sylar said, shaking his head, confused, relieved and somewhat chastened for his momentary doubts of Peter’s fidelity. That wasn’t Peter’s style...when Peter was done with him (a thought Sylar didn’t like to contemplate), he’d stick to his Boy Scout Code of Honor and do the right thing. Still, Peter had been saying nonsensical things since he walked in the door from work.

“How does me reading your innermost desires prove to you that I’m happy? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Or is that where you’re going with this? You’re not usually so indirect.”

“Ah fuck it, Sylar.” Peter ran his hand through his hair with restless impatience. “I’m botching this whole thing. Can we pretend we never had this conversation? I don’t want to borrow that woman’s power from you.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to use it on you either.”

“Wait, you don’t? You just said you did.” Now Peter looked confused.

“I said I’ve thought about it. It’s tempting, in a morbidly fascinating way. Believe me,” Sylar said in a low-pitched rasp, while his hand crept up Peter’s shirt and flattened against his smooth stomach, “I’d love to know what goes on in that head of yours — what makes you tick.” His eyes sent Peter a come-hither message and Peter obeyed, straddling Sylar’s thighs and bending forward for a slow, sweet, sensual kiss. “I want your secrets, Peter, but not like that.”

***

The next day at work Hesam asked Peter if he’d managed to figure out a gift for Sylar. Peter shook his head and explained how he’d broached the topic of letting Sylar read him, thinking that if Sylar had sounded interested he’d make that the romantic gesture Hesam had suggested.

“He can do that? And he said no?!” Hesam was incredulous. “Man I can’t believe he turned that down.”

“You’d want to know?” Peter asked. “Not me. It’s too invasive. Too much pressure. You might not like everything you find.”

“True,” Hesam said. “Maybe not, then. But you’d let him do that to you, if he wanted to?”

Hesam’s question and tone of voice made Peter realized how extraordinary an offer he’d almost made to Sylar. “Maybe. I don’t know. I was testing out your theory that he wanted a romantic gesture to know where he stands. But he said no so I’m back to square one.”

“Wait a second, back-up.” Hesam said. “How did it actually go down? You said ‘Yo, Sy baby, how’d you like to read my tea leaves sometime’ and he said, ‘Wow, Pete, thanks for trusting me with your deepest darkest desires but nah, not interested?’”

“Well, n-no.” God this was embarrassing. Why had he told Hesam something so intimate about his relationship?

“Peter, dude, you’re a little clueless sometimes, you know that?” Hesam grabbed Peter by the shoulder and have him a few shakes, back and forth, before releasing his grasp. “Don’t tell me the details. Your skin is about to peel right off your face. I suggested a romantic gesture, not handing the guy your soul in a box with a big red bow. You could just tell him, have you thought about that? Write him a poem. Give him a mushy card or something.”

A call came over the ambulance’s radio, interrupting the conversation. Peter had never been so glad to receive a call. Not that Hesam’s advice wasn’t helpful. Peter had been over-thinking it when the answer had been obvious all along. He had been avoiding it for reasons that he couldn’t quite articulate, not even to himself, but now his reticence seemed immature. The truth was, he was afraid but that was no excuse. Hadn’t he railed against the fear that had driven his brother to team up with their father and then seek out and capture their own kind? His mother, too, made all of her terrible decisions based on her fear of the future. Peter didn’t want to live in fear and had resolved not to, yet here he was, hiding himself from the one person who gave him everything. It was unkind to let his fear of being vulnerable leave Sylar in the dark. Sylar had vulnerabilities too and had managed to overcome them to express himself to Peter.

It was December 19 and Peter finally knew what he was going to give Sylar. Relieved that he had the “what” worked out, now all he needed was the “how.”

***

  
“Wake up, sleepyhead."  It was December 25 and despite his posturing about the commercialism and overly sappy sentimentality of the holiday, now that it was here Sylar was eager to celebrate Christmas with Peter. This time he had mistletoe and Peter wouldn’t object to being kissed. There was champagne for toasting, a working TV to watch Christmas movies, plenty of food and snacks, and presents that Sylar couldn’t wait to give Peter.

“I’ll go first,” he said when Peter joined him at the Christmas tree after washing up. He handed Peter a stack of wrapped packages.

“All at once?” Peter chuckled. “Wouldn’t you rather take turns?”

“Just open them, Peter,” Sylar said and directed him to the gift he wanted Peter to open first. He had been paying careful attention to Peter’s hints. Peter tore open the package containing the travel mug he had wanted. The next package contained several pairs of Star Wars socks featuring Peter’s favorite characters: Yoda, Chewbacca, R2-D2 and of course, Luke Skywalker. Next Peter opened a pair of earbuds. Peter exclaimed gratefully over each gift but the last one made him laugh. It was a book — How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

“I love it. You saved the best one for last.”

“That’s not the last one. But look inside.” Sylar watched with avid eyes as Peter read the inscription on the inside front cover:

> _Peter,_
> 
> _The Grinch has nothing on me. My heart has grown ten sizes thanks to my favorite Who._
> 
> _Sylar_

Peter looked up, blinking his eyes while his mouth curved into that small, happy smile of his. “One-upping the Grinch? You really are a competitive bastard.”

“Yes. I am,” Sylar agreed. Say whatever you want, Peter, as long as you look at me like that. “Ready for the last one?”

Peter insisted on giving Sylar one of his gifts first. “Only because great minds think alike, so you have to open this now.”

It wasn’t a book-shaped package so Peter’s comment had Sylar’s eyes narrowing in curiosity. He unwrapped the square unlabeled box and ripped off the small piece of tape securing the top of it to retrieve a wickedly grinning Grinch ornament.

“I added the heart,” Peter said with a smile, referencing the drawn-on heart on the figure’s chest with a capital S in the center of it. “You can’t buy one like this and I know that means a lot to you.”

“Touché.” Sylar said and immediately hung the ornament on the tree. He didn’t know if the gift was supposed to be funny or touching and decided it was both. “Okay, for your last gift, we have to go to the videotape.” He picked up his laptop from under the tree, sat cross-legged on the floor beside Peter and pressed the “play” triangle.

A dark-haired young woman appeared on the screen and Peter glanced at Sylar in surprise. Of course, he recognized her. “What’s this?”

“Shhh, just watch.”

_I’ve always loved animals and I’m good with them. I can persuade them to do anything I ask. I guess it was dumb of me to show off but I didn’t know it was a power until the government people showed up. I just thought I was a good trainer._

“I had no idea you taped an interview with her,” Peter said, in a soft, awestruck voice. “This is incredible.”

“Wait,” Sylar shushed him again. The testimonial that described how she discovered her power and found herself at the institute faded from the screen and the girl appeared again, seated on a sofa with her parents beside her. She was applying to colleges to study biology and planned to become a veterinarian. _With my ability, I can help animals which is all I’ve ever wanted to do. I can’t thank the institute enough._

The video was carefully edited to leave out the depressing parts like never being able to see her old friends and extended family again. She’d lost nearly everything because of her ability but the institute had been able to end the cycle for her.

Peter began to speak again when a new face appeared on the screen. It was Aiden, another client whose ability was engineering any structure without blueprints. He had discovered it while volunteering with Habitat for Humanity and had also been brought in by the government for questioning and “study.” He was now the institute’s third employee, after Rebel and Claire.

The video went on to feature five of the six clients they’d helped since launching the institute the previous spring. Only one client had refused to be interviewed, out of fear that the video might fall into the wrong hands and compromise his new identity “It won’t,” Sylar assured Peter.

Peter’s lips were compressed in a way that made them nearly disappear and he was shaking his head. “Sylar, I don’t even know what to say. That was — I mean, you’ve been planning that for a long time. I can see how much thought went into it. Thank you doesn't begin to cover it.” He reached for Sylar’s hand and laced their fingers together. For several moments, Peter looked at their joined hands and then glanced at Sylar’s whose eyes had been on him the whole time. “You’re really good at this gift-giving thing. I don’t know if I can measure up. Go on and open the rest of yours. There’s one that I couldn’t put under the tree but we’ll get to that.”

Peter had given Sylar a hand-held Jeopardy game with 600 questions, a collection of mystery novels by an author Sylar had just started to read and the “genius level” magnetic poetry kit.

“I guess you’ve got my number,” Sylar said. “These are great, Peter. Thank you. I’m dying to know how you hid something so big that it wouldn’t fit under the tree.”

Peter told Sylar that they’d have to take a little trip to see that one and borrowed flight. With Peter in the lead, they flew south west until Peter landed on a building within sight of the institute’s two-story headquarters that functioned publicly as a cooperative not-for-profit art studio.

“Okay, we’re here. Look down.” Sylar followed Peter’s pointing finger to the roof of the institute  
where spray-painted graffiti-style lettering spelled out the words Sylar had been waiting for Peter to say. The letters were filled in with jewel-toned colors and the way the colors bled into each other gave the mural a stained glass type of quality.

“You did this?” Sylar said, dumbfounded, staring at the design and then at Peter and back to the words again. It was gorgeous.

“Uh, well, I had some professional input. I did the outline of the letters. The artists helped me fill them in. Do you like it?”

Sylar wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist. “Of course. It’s beautiful. And permanent. Is this why you brought up Lydia’s power?”

“Yeah.” Peter ducked his head shyly. “I wanted to make a romantic gesture so you’d know … well, this.”

“Peter,” Sylar said, turning to study Peter’s profile, “you’re a little clueless sometimes. Did you think I didn’t know? I’ve known for a long time and I think I know why you haven’t said it.”

“You do? I guess I’m kinda obvious, huh?”

Sylar pivoted to look at Peter head on and reached both hands out to cradle his face. “I’m not like the people who used and abandoned you. I’m not going to betray you. I can’t promise I’ll never make you angry but I’ll do my damnedest not to hurt you.” Peter was making little nods while his solemn eyes never left Sylar’s. “So yes, you’re obvious and I knew but I wanted you to trust me enough to say it.” Sylar moved a strand of Peter’s hair back with one finger and kissed him. “...which by the way, you still haven’t. The graffiti is incredible. I want to hear you say it, too.”

Peter wrapped his arms around Sylar’s waist and tilted his head slightly backwards to meet the taller man’s eyes. “I love you, Sylar. Merry Christmas.”

“I love you, too.” Sylar said. “And you know what else I love? That our most special gifts were the ones that came without ‘packages, boxes and bags.’”

***


End file.
